


the kraken's daughter

by Poose, seven_hells (Poose)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knifeplay, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/seven_hells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Robb takes Asha Greyjoy as his queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kraken's daughter

The Young Wolf besieged them at Deepwood Motte. Archers set her fleet ablaze, though not her ship. Asha Greyjoy planned to die a kraken, to meet the wolves in battle.   
  
And so she did.   
  
*  
  
"I hold your brother captive," he told her, his voice quavering.   
  
"He is your brother more than he is mine," Asha said, and spat at his feet.   
  
"Shall we send Balon a message of sorts?" asked the smooth-skinned man with pale dead eyes, fingering the blade at his hip. Asha looked around her. The bear-girl would be quick with her mace, Asha knew. To provoke her into attack would be better than to remain a prisoner; to lose an ear or a finger and die of slow rot.   
  
The boy king shook his head. "No. Leave us. You as well, Dacey," he told the tall woman.   
  
The woman narrowed her eyes but left them alone in the tent.   
  
"Do you lie with that bear of a woman?" she taunted him. "Her beard is thicker than yours, boy."   
  
"That's enough!" he shouted. "I do not wish to kill you, and even if my bannermen would wish you harm, you are right. Theon was my brother, and I loved him as such."  
  
He sat, while she stood in her irons.  
  
"My lord father raised him to be an honorable man. He was not heir to Winterfell, it is true, but in Pyke, perhaps--"  
  
"--and what do you know of Pyke?" asked Asha. "Of the Iron Islands?"   
  
"Reavers and rapers," he said, glumly. "Traitors. Bastards.  _Cunts."_  
  
Asha bristled at that word. "We take what is owed us by right."   
  
"By whose right?" he asked, his voice tired. "Not by mine. Not even --" and here he paused, "not even by yours."  
  
"Did you want this war?" she asked him.   
  
"Did you?"   
  
The kraken's daughter had no answer.   
  
*  
  
Her goodmother detested her, her one goodsister shied from her, while the second followed her through the stone passageways the same as her lord husband's direwolf.   
  
Four years since the war ended. Theon had fled north to have his crimes washed away, his claim to the Iron Islands forfeit. Balon had named her his heir but Victarion ruled in her name.   
  
Asha was the royal consort of Winterfell, the overseer of the castle. The latter was task which she was ill suited for, but which Sansa Stark performed beautifully.

  


 *  
  
They were in their bed. Asha had slept naked since childhood, a habit which had shocked Robb when they were first wed. 'Nothing but a hindrance,' she had said, after their second wedding, the only one that mattered. The only one done by the sea.   
  
Now, however, when he came to her Robb too wore only his smallclothes, and Asha made quick enough work of them.  _I must ask Sansa to have more made._  
  
"It is well past time that my sister was married," Robb mentioned, as he did at least once a fortnight.   
  
"Bloody hell," said Asha, "She'll have to leave us, then, and I don't give a rat's arse about the granaries or the stable doors. Let Sansa deal with it a bit longer."   
  
"And what do you care about, my queen?" asked her husband.   
  
Asha cupped his balls in her palm. "This," she said, "this right here. The stuff of life. The only thing that matters." She squeezed through the linen and his body stiffened. Asha rubbed her thumb along the hardening ridge and bent her head to mouth at the wet spot spreading across the fabric.   
  
"Care of a household gives nothing but tedium," she continued, moving to straddle his body. "I was built to fight, not to count nails and order cases of wine for ungrateful lords."   
  
Quick as a flash her dirk was at his throat. A man in battle would flinch to look death in the eye. An enemy, yes, but not Robb Stark of Winterfell. He blinked his eyes up at her, full lips parting, and leaned his head to expose his throat to the blade.   
  
"Have I taken you captive so quick?" she teased. "Fight back," she said, tongue grazing the slight scratch, the intimations of copper and salt. His blood tasted of the sea.   
  
"I yield," he whispered, as she drew the blunt edge of the blade along his chest. Another pair of his poor smallclothes were ripped open along the seams and tossed onto the floor, ruined.   
  
"What must the washerwomen think?" she said. "It might be better for you to stop wearing those blasted things. Better access."   
  
She grinned. Robb bit his lip as she took him in hand. "Asha," he groaned, as she stroked, bringing him to full hardness with a few practiced flicks of her wrist.   
  
"It's not so different from an axe, this," she said, feeling the hot leak against her palm. "You have to know how to control it, to make it respond to you, aye."   
  
She set the blade aside so as to rub his cock against her slit. "Ask me nicely and I'll fuck you."   
  
He went hot, face filled with shame. But he needed this, needed her to make him beg for it. The Starks were always afraid of real passion; she had decided. It skirted too close to madness and too far from honor.   
  
"Say it," she whispered, grabbing the knife once more.   
  
"Say 'please fuck me,'" she told him, letting the head of his cock, flushed and wet, nudge her entrance. Her husband blushed like a maid - the heat showed prickly all over his fair skin - and Asha loved to make him go redder with her hips, the knife, these taunting words.   
  
"Please," he said, "Please, Asha, I need to be inside of you."   
  
"How did you ever hope to gain a kingdom?" she said, "If you yield so easily?" Robb thrust up, like he could not control himself.   
  
"I will need to tie you down next time," she cautioned, as he arched his back. "Even though you give me no fight at all." His hands slid above his head, crisscrossing in supplication, and he mouthed, "Oh, gods, yes." Asha felt her cunt pulse. Seeing him like this: spread out and desperate, it brought on a frenzy. Like a good battle, it roused the blood.   
  
"To this bed?" she asked. "Or from the ceiling? I've been tending to the abbatoir. Sansa's no stomach for it. They've got hooks there, strong steel hooks to hang the butchered pigs from. These old black beams would hold one or two well enough." She glanced at the ceiling.   
  
"Anything," he panted, as her thighs wetly slapped his own. The straw smelt stronger where they had dampened it, as they always did. Robb was soft and beautiful, and the sheer need he had for her made her soaking wet between her legs.   
  
"You'd look right pretty strung up from the ceiling," she went on, watching him come undone underneath her, feeling the seep like seawater between her legs.   
  
"Or on your knees, hands tied up tight, wrists to elbows. Gorgeous, and you would be my prisoner. You may have defeated me on land, but in the bed--" she tossed her head and laughed.   
  
Robb struggled just enough to make it interesting. She went on, feeling the rush of power and heat spread over her bare belly. "I'll leave you like that on the floor and use your mouth when I feel like it."   
  
He moaned. Asha pinned him, pounded him, fucked the living daylights out of him. "You would like that, though, too much, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you? Answer me," she growled, "tell me."   
  
"Yes," he rasped, "Anything you want, take me. Take me, Asha. By the gods, f _uck me."_  
  
"Good boy," she said, and bucked her hips. Her blade flashed at his neck to nick him there and he choked, eyes slamming shut as his body jerked up and he spent inside of her.   
  
"Did you mean it?" he asked, when she had tired of kissing him, kissing the wound clean.   
  
"Which part?"   
  
"All of it," he said.   
  
"Kinky little bitch," she said, fondly. "Of course I meant it. I'll speak to the butcher on the morrow."

 

 

 


End file.
